A Time for Haircuts

People say dogs look like their owners. Walking the très chic streets of Paris, I see what they mean.

The old lady and her tiny scotty have matching matted gray hair. The blond and her tiny chihuahua are both always perfectly presented and adorned in pink jacket and collar. The man with the german shepherd is dark, mysterious, dressed to be tough, presented as hard. In this city you can learn a lot about a person by the beast by their side.

I laughed at the chubby boy walking an overweight bull terrier that was so silly he couldn't intimidate anyone. The boy too pretended to be tough, but you could tell he was one of the truly sensitive ones. Amidst my giggles, I realized something shocking.

Here I was with my dog. She's beautiful in a graceful way and she radiates happiness. But she's also remarkably clumsy, friendly with absolutely anyone in order to get what she wants (usually love or food), and embarrassingly lazy. At the moment her beautiful hair is also unkempt and filthy, and she's way too fat for her own good.

I looked at my reflection in the store window. I hadn't showered and was wearing the only clean clothes left in my apartment. One hand held a Quick! hamburger and the other ran through my once beautiful curls, which at the moment are part golden, part brown, and haven't been cut in ages.

"Shit, Tequila Rose. We both need a bath and haircut."